


Does it Hurt to Die?

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Homecoming, Broken Hearts, Death and anniversaries, Life after London, M/M, Retirement Bees and Memoirs, together again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:19:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes knows many things, but as he gets older he realised that there are one or two very important things that he doesn't know. The first was answered in peace and sadness, and as always, his conductor of light is able to help him with the answer to the second and final problem. <br/>MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Does it Hurt to Die?

There were many things in this life that Sherlock Holmes knew – and that was before you considered the two hundred and forty three different ash types.

He knew that most people of his acquaintance were either geniuses (his mother and his brother – although he’d never admit that to the latter!) or idiots (Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson was in a class all of his own)

And he was aware that for many years there was one who fell into a state of in-between – neither genius nor idiot – a conductor of light the like of which he had never know before, and the like of which he would never find again.

Those years with John had been the best of the best, from stumbling beginnings and constant denials to frequent friendly touches and laughing affection, and finally to realisation and admissions – they were two halves of a whole, John was his moral compass and his conductor of light, and Sherlock? He was the sole reason John continued to breathe.

They had nearly twenty years together, most of them spent chasing criminals and trying very hard not to get themselves killed in the process, and good fortune had been on their side.  Most of their hurts were minor, and John patched them up with ease, although there were one or two close calls that left one or the other – and one time both of them – needing the care only a hospital could give, but they survived. And they laughed in the face of danger.

He’d had plans, back then, that involved the pair of them moving to the country (Sussex was nice, that he knew having spent time there as a child) and keeping bees. Well, he knew he would keep bees, as surely as he knew that John would turn his infamous (and often romanticised) blog into a series of books.

The first had been published just five years ago, and he has berated John for calling it ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’ although he knew, just as the good doctor had known, that it would be an instant success, and the royalties funded the purchase of their cottage and a small portion of woodland on the edge of Burgh Wood.

Shortly after they moved he realised the first major gap in his knowledge.

Always, since they moved in together, Sherlock had bowed to John’s superior knowledge regarding all things medical, and that was his first mistake.  Not only his first, but his biggest.

John knew, as any good doctor would, that his prolonged bout of enteric fever while he was in Afghanistan had done damage to his heart, damage that was not obvious, but that worked away gradually to undermine his health.

When Sherlock found him, that day just a year ago, he had come back from talking to his bees -  John laughed and said they were idiots, and Sherlock had argued that they were more intelligent than most people he knew – to find his only friend dead in the old and now tatty armchair that he had insisted on bringing from 221B, and in his hand was the first edition of his second book, open at the first page, a dedication to _‘My best friend Sherlock Holmes, the wisest, cleverest, most human human being it has ever been my pleasure to know’_ printed in bold lettering, and underneath in John’s familiar scrawl _‘written with love, John.’_

He had written that, placed his pen on the table beside him, and as he waited for the ink to dry had slipped away.

In anger Sherlock had thrown the book aside, flinging himself onto his knees beside the still form, laying his tear-dampened face against the cold yet softly smiling face of his love, pressing a final kiss against thin dry lips.

He didn’t know (another gap in his knowledge) how long he knelt there, begging John to stop playing around, to come back and tell him everything was fine, just as he used to in their Baker Street days, but eventually his great mind forced itself to accept, albeit unwillingly that he was alone once more.

Over the year his friends, the loyal few, visited regularly.  Molly and Greg Lestrade, now married with twin boys named William and John in honour of their godparents, Mrs Hudson’s niece, who had inherited the house on the death of her aunt and allowed them to remain there until they were ready to move on, and last but by no means least, his brother Mycroft, now retired (supposedly) but still with fingers in every pie that he wasn’t currently eating.

Some things never changed.

And it was Mycroft who had been at the cottage when it happened.

They had been talking about John; Mycroft was happy to indulge his brother in this now that with time on his hands he had read John’s magnum opus and learned what it was that actually kept the two men together. Part of him was in awe of the effect the ordinary doctor and soldier had had on his extraordinary brother, and part of him thanked whatever Gods had brought them together given Sherlock’s life real purpose. It was the least he could do to honour the memory of the man who had left them a year ago to the day.

Sherlock had just thought that the pain in his chest was because he missed John, and he pushed the feeling away not wanting to dwell on what could have been. As he stood to make a fresh pot of tea the vice that had attached itself to his ribs started to squeeze, forcing the air from his lungs and preventing him from drawing in more.

He didn’t remember falling, nor Mycroft’s arms guiding his limp body gently to the floor as he reached for his mobile and dialled the emergency services.

Not quite unconscious, yet not conscious he could hear soft voices in the background, one or two that he didn’t recognise, they must be doctors or nurses, their intonation and solemnity telling him much about where he was and what had happened.

He also heard several voices that he knew well, and he listened carefully to what he was being told.

“You really shouldn’t have scared your brother like that.”

Molly. It could only be her. She’s the one that would remember all her medical training about the last sense to go being hearing, the one who would chide him and talk to him, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t talk back. There was a smile in her voice but Sherlock could tell it was forced, sad.

“I never believed in broken hearts before.”

Greg Lestrade, ever the romantic. Although this time – was this a first? – he might well be right.

“More like age and the effects of years of abuse of his body.”

Typical Mycroft. Seeing everything in black and white, missing the gentle nuances of life’s colour.  He really should get himself a goldfish, before it’s too late.

“Who put that book on his bedside table?”

Molly again. And Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft’s frown.

“It was on his table in the cottage, I don’t recall seeing it with his things when we bought him in.”

There was the sound of pages being softly turned.

“I hadn’t realised John had actually written a second dedication in it.”

“You didn’t see them together the way I did.”

Really?  Had Greg really been that observant?

The voices moved away. One of the strangers was saying something about rest, and tea was mentioned – Molly he thought, ever practical. Leave the room but not the building, away from him but close by.

Long after the door closed he dwelt upon that other great gap in his knowledge.

And he had a question.

Does it hurt to die?

“Not really.”

Sherlock tried to draw in a sharp breath. It couldn’t be...!

“Come on Sherlock, come out of your mind palace. It’s time to go.”

“Go where?” He heard himself speak but knew that his lips hadn’t moved, couldn’t move around the esophageal-tracheal tube feeding oxygen to his lungs.

“Home.”

The word was said with such a wealth of warmth that Sherlock felt it from the tips of his greying curls to the pads of his toes.

“I’d like that John.” He whispered, forcing his eyes open.

John stood there at the side of his bed, one hand on the book resting on the bedside table, the other gently hovering at his wrist, fingers pressed to his pulse point. He looked younger, much as he had that day in Bart’s lab, when Sherlock had taken a leap of faith and arranged to meet him the following night at Baker Street.

“Come on then.” He smiled that familiar, loving smile that he reserved just for Sherlock, and the man in the bed felt a tug on his wrist.

Getting up wasn’t as difficult as Sherlock thought it would be. He looked down into John’s clear, smiling blue eyes and felt he was almost home already. He’d missed this.

“Let’s go home.” With a grin John slipped his hand further down to entwine their fingers, and together they left the room.

 If Sherlock had bothered to look behind he would have seen the body on the bed become still, he would have heard the sob as Molly walked through the door and saw the flat lines on the monitors, but  for the two men drifting noiselessly away it was no longer their concern, because all that tied them to the room was gone, and all that stretched ahead of them was eternity.

 


End file.
